åDELIGHT å
EPISODE 30
In his room, Timmy Gray was playing
with an array of little plastic men. Football pennants were aligned succinctly
on the walls. A bed with a quilt of lambs and oranges, a dresser and a toychest, and a television on the desk along with
schoolbooks... "Citizenship", "Animals We Use". On the
floor was heaped a mound of driveway gravel, supporting the multitude of little
plastic men... Indians and pirates, knights and Nazis.
Besieged, on the upper reaches of the gravel mountain, were a dozen milk-white
plastic Presidents, each stiffly mounted on a tiny, square pedestal bearing
their names, and the dates of their birth and death.
Howard rapped upon the side of the
door as he entered.
"Nice room," he observed.
"And those are... interesting subjects that you take."
"Those?" For a fleeting
moment, Timmy seemed confused. A white plastic President slipped from his
fingers and knocked over several buccaneers in its descent. "Oh... our
social studies teacher at the Modern School says that we don't have to read the
book, just the review at the end of the chapter. What we have to do is watch TV
and report on the commercials. Mr. Morris says that television commercials are
the most important thing since gunpowder. I don't understand, but we get tested
- and I usually get at least a "B", sometimes, even, an
"A"..."
"Yes, I'm very sure," said
Howard, "and it's important to do just what your teachers say. Well, well,
well." He put his hand in his pockets. "Timmy, there's a question me
and Betty... er, my wife and I would like to..."
"Yes," Betty jumped the gun.
"Were you playing?"
"Unh uh," Timmy grunted. "With my little men. Most of them are climbing up this
mountain. And the ones who get above the others, they roll marbles down."
He picked up a marble and a President to demonstrate. "That was Lincoln,
Timmy said, as the marble found its target. "Now,
he's dead."
"Just the way that he is in real
life," Howard observed.
"When the others make it up the
mountain," Betty asked, "what happens?"
"Then they kill each other,"
Timmy stated. "All those little men."
"But that's not possible,"
argued Howard. "If they are fighting, they have to be divided into sides.
One team wins, the other loses. That's the way it goes."
"Not the way I make the
rules." There was a menace, poorly hidden, in the boy's reply and he
reached over and knocked a white President from the mountain; Howard couldn't
see who it was. "They're my men, and my rules. Everybody
dead!"
"Well that's uh... that,"
said Betty, making an effort to change the subject. "And is that your
telephone?"
Like the Presidents, the phone was
white and shiny, but seemed to possess an artificial quality that inspired
Howard to walk over to the desk and take a closer look. He scraped a fingernail
across the receiver and tasted it. The telephone was made of sugar.
"Now," said Timmy, with a
hint of Waldonesian impatience, "what can I do
you for?"
Betty took a flyer. "You have got
to help. "There's something that is making the
people downstairs sick."
"Is that like throw-up
sick?" Timmy questioned.
"Not that kind," Howard said.
"More like the kind of sick where people say the bad things that they're
usually thinking. And bang into things, and wear masks."
"And make noise," Betty
added.
"Like kids?"
"Sort of..." said Howard,
lamely. He put his hands back in his pockets.
"Alright," Timmy said and
pushed the rest of the Presidents off the mountain, leaving it a pure and
empty, gravel place. "But I think we ought to keep down. I don't believe
your friends would like it if they caught us spying."
"He's right," Betty determined.
So the Slacks, on their hands and
knees, followed Timmy... crawling out the door and into the hall, slithering on
their bellies towards the balcony and peeking through the slats of the rail
down upon a vista of scabrous wonder.
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